


You're Sincere, That's What's Weird

by pokey_jr



Series: Only Sequences Change [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kissing, help ive fallen for this android and i cant get up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: “Connor?”The faint metallic snap of his quarter from hand to hand stops. “Yes, Detective?”The question you had planned suddenly sticks in your throat. It’s spent so much time in your head over the past few weeks, and now it doesn’t want to leave. Sitting across the table from him in this dingy bar, and all you can do is stare at him and think lewd thoughts.**Connor's idea of a fantasy is, of course, adorably pure.





	You're Sincere, That's What's Weird

“Connor?”

The faint metallic snap of his quarter from hand to hand stops. “Yes, Detective?”

The question you had planned suddenly sticks in your throat. It’s spent so much time in your head over the past few weeks, and now it doesn’t want to leave. Sitting across the table from him in this dingy bar, and all you can do is stare at him and think lewd thoughts. A blush rises in your cheeks.

“You’re blushing,” he observes.

Which doesn’t help. _Yes_ , you want to say. _Because I keep imagining you in situations your programming was never intended to handle._ You take a fortifying slug of your whisky before continuing. “Do you—I mean, do androids have fantasies?”

His LED doesn’t even flicker to yellow. He gives you a pat answer, a version of the pleasant, polite explanations about his programming which you’ve heard a thousand times before. “Detective, I am programmed to be analytical, and thus have the capacity to think creatively and imagine abstract scenarios.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, which for anyone else would induce an _ah alright welllll I have impure thoughts about..._

Connor tilts his head at you with the same innocence you might expect from a puppy.

“However, these do not extend to any sort of personal… indulgence. While my body is capable of responding to sexual stimuli, I am not programmed to experience urges such as the kind you’re speaking of.”

“Right, yeah,” you mutter, and finish your drink, because it’s too hot in here, and he’s looking at you curiously, and you really hope he’s not about to ask you the same kind of thing back. 

Disappointed and embarrassed, you get up to leave.

He stands with you. “Where to next?”

“Home.”

He escorts you without a word, the blue accents on his uniform faintly luminescent in the dark. At last, at your stoop, you turn to him, only to find him doing his android zone-out thing. Usually it only lasts him a few seconds, but now it goes on… and on… and on… You resist waving a hand in front of his face. His eyes go wider, his expression grows more distressed. Until he snaps out of it, his LED blinking rapidly, and fixes you with a look of deep concern.

“What?” You shake your head. Sometimes you think he forgets that he can’t link with your mind like he can with other androids. He’s observant enough as it is, though. You don’t need him reading your mind.

“I… I was reviewing the databases of pornography on the internet.”

“Oh, Connor.” You want to hug him. You’ve never seen him look so traumatized, or perhaps confused, and settle for placing your hand on his forearm. “ _Why?_ ”

He looks at you as if his motivation should be obvious. “I didn’t understand your question, Detective. I was merely researching human culture in order to provide an adequate response.”

“Are you alright?”

“Of course. My processing unit was simply overwhelmed by the shear amount of available data.”

You laugh. Confusion after all. “There’s a lot of it, isn’t there.”

“Yes. But I believe I can now answer your question.”

Your heart leaps in your chest, at the thrilling possibility that he’ll put his newly acquired knowledge to use, leading you inside, to the bed, the couch, hell, even the damn counter. Burying his goddamn perfect face in your cunt and putting that tongue to better use than crime scene analysis. Or fucking. Wild, wanton rutting, and would he bend you over, or want to see you face to study your expressions, _that’s_ the question you should have asked--

“Kissing,” he says. “I think about kissing because I have not experienced it.”

You swallow, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. _And does that mean you’ve done all the other things?_ Arousal suffuses you, thick and insistent, and he can sense it, you know he can, because he gives you a deceptively innocent smile and asks, “what about you?”

“I—I’ve kissed people before.”

He steps closer. “You’re having a nervous response. Are your memories of kissing unpleasant?”

You shake your head ‘no’, and your voice nearly deserts you again. “I like you.”

He regards you evenly, a calm counterpoint to your inner upheaval. You should never have asked, you feel so stupid, he’s going to walk away any second now, and you’ve ruined everything--

He steadies you with one gesture: he puts his hands on either side of your face, and they feel real. Uncannily so, as does his face bear imperfections, a slight asymmetry, some freckles, and the beginnings of age lines on his forehead. Age lines which will never deepen. Only the LED blinking yellow reminds you—in the moment before he presses his lips to yours—that he is not human.  
Nearly, sometimes. But not quite.

You adore him for it.

He is not hesitant. No shyness from him, only inexperience, and a hunger to explore. A little clumsy at first, but he kisses you tenderly, slowly. Every second it goes on erases some measure of his naïveté. His thumbs rub little circles on your cheekbones.  
He makes a sweet little noise of surprise when you catch his lower lip gently between your teeth. And another, lower sound from deep in his chest when you grab his tie and pull his body flush against yours. You feel the ridge of his erection, hard and hot against your hip, but he’s in no hurry to grind against you.

Unfortunately.

His tongue dips into your mouth, the embrace deepens, and desire pulses in your core. Perhaps he can taste it on you.

All too soon he breaks away, leaving you dazed, trying to catch your breath. Your body hums with unmet need. Should you ask him to come in? Will he know what that means?

He studies you, brushing his thumb over your swollen lower lip, and taking in your current state. Almost like he’s admiring his handiwork, though you know he’s only analyzing his effect on you. 

“I like kissing. Thank you,” he says amicably, as though all that had just transpired was a firm, professional handshake. But a devious smile belies his feigned innocence as he adjusts his tie. “I appreciate the unusual questions you pose me, Detective. I think, with time, we can learn a lot from each other. Goodnight.”


End file.
